


At the Grave

by Danagirl623



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, One Shot, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:41:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26499544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danagirl623/pseuds/Danagirl623
Summary: So, I haven't written anything in about two months because of depression and moving. Some days I think I'm feeling better, but other days I don't. So progress?I am a lover of  Sherlock Holmes. I've watched several different versions, I listen to ACD's original lore nearly daily, I follow several Jeremy Brett blog on Tumblr, I have listened to Cthulhu Casebooks 'The Shadwell Shadows', Benedict Cumberbatch read a Sherlock Holmes story, and have an obscure ACD Sherlock Holmes quote tattooed on me.Long story short, I am a giant nerd woman and have very specfic fandom needs that I will be fulfilling myself.Thank you to my darling Mick. They are a bad ass human and they help me be a better writer.I used transcript from https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html THEY ARE AMAZING AND MAKE MY LIFE GREATKudos and comments are appreciated.Thanks guys, gals, and NB pals. <3
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20
Collections: Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	At the Grave

**Author's Note:**

> I mention some prescription drug names. Descriptions below. 
> 
> Pexeva is a medication that is prescribed for PTSD and it can cause tremors. 
> 
> Celexa is a depression/anxiety medication and it can cause tremors. 
> 
> Doxepin is a depression/anxiety medication and it can cause tremors.

John H. Watson, MD sat in the cold, wet grass running his thumb along the edge of a plant stalk. He leaned against the cold granite of the grave he was sitting on. 

It was rude to stand on someone’s grave, but John wasn’t so sure about sitting on it. **_Not that it matters._** He shoved his hands deep into the pocket of the too-large Belstaff he was wearing and wrapped it around his freezing frame. Afghanistan had prepared him for long hot summers, not dreary London winter days. 

The sun was barely peeking up through the haze of a chilly wet afternoon. For a long moment, the world was silent and still as John stared off into the distance. He thought things that he barely allowed himself to think these days. 

_ Dinner? _

_ Starving. _

_ Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street. _

_ That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done. _

_ And you invaded Afghanistan. _

A sob froze in John’s throat as he remembered the things he tried not too. Those were the public things he felt he could safely remember. 

John didn’t think about dry lips pressed to tired eyes. He didn’t think about tucking himself against a trim body that was warm and breathing. He most certainly didn’t think about the way that warm body sighed in comfort and oozed around John covering all open skin. 

In a soft barely audible voice John whispered, “You aren’t really dead.” 

Somewhere deep inside of the man bubbled nervous laughter. Quickly the bubbles stacked up his throat and burst out of his mouth in a loud braying laugh. John quickly threw his hands over his mouth in astonishment. The chill air bit at his fingers, and he shoved them back into crowded pockets. 

Rapidly the loud laughter echoed around the silent graveyard before dying out. A crow alerted to John’s presence left his perch and landed on top of the grave. The crow looked John over, then turned away to ignore him peacefully.

_ Since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week? _

_ I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see……  _ **_there were some words here that belong, but they don’t matter…._ ** _ that’s not going to happen. _

_ This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy. _

_ Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. _

After a silent debate of whether to scream or whisper, John added, “Because if you were dead, Mycroft would have killed himself. He loves you, in a fiercely quiet, but completely fucking mental way. You’re his favorite person, there’s no doubt about that, mate.” 

A sudden shifting out of the corner of John’s eyes caught his attention, but he shook his head. “Rabbit, I told you, I’m busy telling Sherlock off. I didn’t bring you any car-”

John cut himself off when a shadow fell over his face. The shadow was tall and lean, and cleared their throat. 

“I need my coat back, Watson.” 

John’s entire body froze, and his eyes filled instantly with tears. “You bastard,” John managed to spit out, still not moving. His entire body stuck on the cold ground, as his mind slowly and methodically shifted through the available data. 

John climbed slowly to his feet, one hand on the headstone behind him for support, studying the tall man standing quietly before him, not quite as dead as he was supposed to be. Not that John had ever really thought so. He had no real evidence to the contrary, but there was less to indicate that Sherlock Holmes was actually dead.

"Well?" Familiar brown eyes shimmered with concealed mirth as his reflections of the merging past and present were interrupted. 

"Well, what?" He said gruffly.

"Aren't you going to punch me?" A familiar curl of those lips.

"I'm trying to decide if it's worth the effort. " He admitted, still studying Sherlock carefully. 

"Well, I certainly wouldn't blame you if you did." Still smiling, he took a short step closer to John. 

John stared at the sunburned and furry face, and couldn’t help but smile. “I see you’ve been missing your weekly grooming appointments.”

“The only thing missing from my life in the last three years was a decent tailor and a competent barber,” Sherlock smiled kindly, tilting his head at John.

John stepped closer to Sherlock, but didn’t pull the other man into his arms. “I guess you don’t need a doctor then,” John said with a smile on his lips that didn’t quite meet his eyes. John balled his fist up at his side, as his tremor started. 

Sherlock’s eyes flitted to John’s hand, before he sighed, “No, but it seems you do.” John struggled to control the tremor. “Celexa or Doxepin?” 

“Neither,” John muttered, shaking his hand out. John kept his eyes downcast, as he willed the nerves to relax. “Pexeva.” Sherlock’s brain worked to understand what John wasn’t saying as his entire body shivered. 

“Why are you on that?” Sherlock spit out, before he managed to figure it out himself. A small “oh,” managed to escape his lips. 

“We need to get you home,” John blurted out, before Sherlock could announce loudly that John’s demons were stirring. 

Sherlock shook his head, and pulled John’s body close to his by grabbing the lapel of the Bellstaff. “I just need-”

“Your doctor,” John cut in, slipping into the military precision of a practiced doctor about to examine his patient. John’s cold stiff fingers gently grazed over small wounds on Sherlock’s hands and face. 

“My dear Watson,” Sherlock said, with a gentle sigh in his voice. John stopped examining his patient, and glanced up at his not-so-deceased lover. 

“You are a giant git. I should have hit you-” John said, before Sherlock pulled him into a deep kiss. John pushed Sherlock away from himself, and took a step back. “You left me for three years! You don’t get to stumble back into my life-”

Sherlock made a loud dismissive exhale of air indicating that he didn’t agree with John in the least. 

“You don’t get to pop back into my life and pretend like the last three years didn’t happen. They did! I lived them,” John took a moment to contain his growing rage. “I lived those years, without you-”

Sherlock nodded his head, but didn’t open his mouth. He knew better. 

“I don’t care if you think that you can say, “I did too”-” John stopped speaking his entire body deflating. “I’m still furious with you.”

“As you should be,” Sherlock agreed kindly. 

“You’re going to have to wear the hat more,” John said begrudgingly. 

“I am Sherlock Holmes and for my dear John, I will wear the hat.” 

John nodded his head, before he ran his hand through his hair. With a sniff John asked, “Dinner?” 

“Starving.” 


End file.
